


Tales of the Healer King

by ohmyfae



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: And one or two other familiar faces, FFXV kinkmeme, Folklore, Gen, stories about Ardyn that may or may not be true
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 05:26:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11141895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyfae/pseuds/ohmyfae
Summary: Years before the start of the main adventure, a group of entertainers and some locals from Duscae gather at a haven to drink and tell stories. But the dark beyond their haven carries more than just daemons, and who knows who orwhathas emerged from the night to share their fire...





	Tales of the Healer King

Summer was rolling through the marshes of Duscae, settling down in heavy pockets of warm air that coated the trees in oozing resin, made garulas pant and wallow in the mud, and sent chocobos squawking for the lake that lay on the edge of the Disc. Just outside of a settlement under the shadow of the Meteor, a group of traveling entertainers met up with locals out on a trip to catch fireflies. They retreated to a haven to escape the swarm of midges that rose from the swamp, and a fire flickered and hissed against the glowing runes of the camp.

“Here, now, Alma,” said a man with a guitar, gesturing to a woman fussing over a collapsible puppet theater. “So long as we’re out past sunset, we ought to give these folks a show.”

“Oh, Astrals,” Alma said. “I just tied the goddamn puppet strings, Gaius.” One of the men from town smiled at her as he passed around cups of cider, spiced to mask the taste of sour apples. “Why don’t you sing them a song? We all know you want to.”

“I shouldn’t,” the man said, with mock humility. 

The men and women from town knew how _this_ went. Gaius had the look of a born ham, and would likely rise to the occasion without any encouragement on their part. “Alright, then. What would y’all like to hear? Sailor and the Milkmaid? Siren’s Fancy? I Would My Heart Be Born A Bastard’s?”

“I have a suggestion.” The gathered crowd turned as a booted foot stepped onto the haven. A young woman holding her sleeping child glanced down as the others looked up, and saw the lights of the daemon runes flicker. Behind her, a shadow passed into the firelight to become a tall, broad-shouldered man with auburn hair so dark it looked almost mauve, and a smile that would tempt even an Astral to fall. He wore an old, faded jacket that brushed his thighs, and what looked like tattered sleeves was an array of roses, carefully cut out of cloth fine as silk.

“Welcome,” said one of the men from town, Hannen. As the smith and primary source of income for the region, he was the townspeople’s unofficial spokesman. “Bet we can scrounge up an extra cup for you.”

“Much obliged,” the stranger said. He sat on the other side of the fire from Hannen, next to the woman with the child, and crossed his legs under him in a smooth, elegant manner. “Now, as to my suggestion… you’re a bard, are you not?” He addressed Gaius.

“Ha!” Gaius tapped the top of his guitar. “Like one of them old singers in the shrines? I wish. But sure, what was it you’re wanting to hear?”

“Do you know any songs about the Healer King?”

A hush fell over the circle. Alma leaned against her theater box and kicked dust into her side of the fire.

“Sure,” she said. “Everyone knows something about _him.”_

“If he was even a real king, and not some story for the kids,” said an older woman, sipping her cider. 

“I…” Gaius sucked at his teeth in contemplative silence. “I know a song about his birth, if you like.”

The stranger beamed. “I’d be delighted,” he said. His eyes truly were bright. The young woman sitting next to him stared into them, trying to make out the color that lay beyond the fire reflected on their glassy surface, and swayed, overcome by a sudden spell of dizziness. Paige, a boy apprenticed to Hannen, shook her by the shoulder, and the stranger turned his odd, vague gaze to her for the briefest fraction of a second.

“Right,” said Gaius. “The Healer King’s Mother.” He strummed a chord on his guitar, and his voice rose in a low alto over the watchful crowd. 

 

_His mother set the child king_  
_Upon a willow bough_   
_She wove the stars in silver thread_   
_And laced them on his brow_

_A crown of light, a steady hand_  
_Gave names to every one_   
_And when the child king awoke_  
_He harkened down the sun._

 

The man in the old grey jacket laughed, propping his boots up on the stone ring around the fire. 

“The sun existed well before the Healer King,” he said, and tossed another log from the firewood pile into the flames. Sparks rose against the dark beyond the haven, and the would-be bard shrugged and drummed slender fingers on his guitar.

“I know that,” he said. “Everyone knows _that._ It’s, what’s it called. A metty-fore. Means when a thing is, but it ain’t.”

“Symbolism,” said the woman with the baby. The man in the jacket turned a dazzling smile her way, and she rolled her shoulders. “I know a song. My dad, he used to sing it when the bar got quiet and he was cleaning up for the night. The Betrayal of the Fallen.”

“I don’t believe I’ve heard that one,” the newcomer said. He leaned forward and wove his fingers together. “How does it go?”

“I’m not much of a singer,” the woman warned. 

“My dear.” The man’s shoulders hunched, and the rose-patterned cape stitched onto his shoulders swung in the warm breeze. “I must insist.”

The woman smiled faintly, and the infant whimpered in her arms, turning their back to the fire. 

“Very well,” she said. “So it starts like this…”

 

\---

 

_Astral-cursed and heavens-sent, he wanders and watches alone_  
_No crown in his hair, the dark in his bones_   
_Broken and battered and ancient as stone_  
_Alone, alone._

 

The woman’s voice faltered to a stop, and she quailed under the critical looks from her companions around the fire. 

“It’s just what my dad used to hum, sometimes,” she said. 

“That didn’t make no sense,” said Hannen, after a moment. “Sounded like you were singin’ about the Accursed.”

“Well, some folks say the Accursed and the Healer King are the same man,” said Alma. Gaius scoffed. 

“Only those who like a tragedy. Not that it wasn’t a fine song, miss,” he said to the red-faced young woman. “But all that stuff about going mad, living forever, turning into a daemon-creature? Not very good for the kids.”

“Didn’t say it was true,” the woman said, in a voice so soft it could have been a whisper.

“It comes close,” said the stranger. He accepted a cup of cider from Paige, but didn’t drink. “It’s a marvel that a song like that has survived so long.”

“Barmen hear all sorts, I’m sure,” said Alma. 

Gaius stretched. “Speakin’ of the Accursed,” he said. “Don’t you have the King and the Daemon Lord puppets?”

“Aw, hell, Gaius, you’re determined to make me take out the boys, aren’t you,” Alma grumbled. She turned and pushed open her box, and the sound of it banging open distressed the infant in the young woman’s arms. The woman and her child paced the outskirts of the camp, a wary Hannen following after to make sure no daemons thought to make any bold moves out of the darkness, as the puppets were taken out.

What followed was a fight between the Healer King and the Daemon Lord (whose puppet was painted a bright, garish purple) that had the stranger in the old jacket howling with laughter. When he unbent from his unsteady gasping, the tears that pricked the corners of his eyes looked black in the shadows at the edge of the haven. 

“That…” he said, “has to be the most diverting show I’ve seen in an _age.”_

“It’s alright,” Alma said, flushing dark against her brown skin. 

“Shh,” whispered the young woman with the baby, as the infant wailed at her breast. “Oh, don’t make me call your father, darling. You were doing so _well.”_

Hannen grinned. “Aw, yeah,” he said. “Our girl here’s visiting her parents from all the way in the _city,_ huh? Married a big man in Insomnia.”

“He’s not _that_ intimidating, Hannen,” the woman said. Her eyes narrowed when she smiled, but the grin didn’t last long. The baby yowled again, mouth wide in wordless misery. “Maybe it’s the change in the weather?”

The stranger in the grey jacket rose, brows coming together in almost professional interest. “May I?” he asked. He drew the woman a ways behind the fire, and held out his hands. “I was once a doctor of sorts, in my younger days.”

“Younger days?” the woman asked. “You can’t be older than forty.” She handed the child over, and the man looked down at the small, screaming scrap of humanity and adjusted his hold to support their head. 

“You flatter me, my dear. Goodness, only a few weeks old at most. And you traveled with him? Brave girl.” He didn’t do anything, really, just held the child, stared at them, and the young woman finally saw that his eyes were a brown so light they were almost gold. 

“Ah,” the man said. He looked up at the woman, and she shivered despite the warm night air. Around the fire, the group had moved on to a song about a mage who came upon a woman selling milk products, but which was probably just another way to talk about sex without snickering. “Well,” the man said. “I suppose this can be a repayment, of sorts, for that fascinating song of yours.”

“Oh,” the woman said, clearly baffled. The man turned his back to her, and she darted forward as he hunched over, shoulders tense as though drawn with a sudden cramp or a shudder of pain. By the time she was facing him again, he was smiling through a thin sheen of sweat, and the child in his hold was silent and watchful. 

“Good as new,” he said, and passed the infant into the mother’s keeping once more.

“Thank you?” the woman asked. The man’s face was ashen, and there were shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “He’s quiet, at least, and he isn't so warm. You must have a magic touch with children, I suppose!”

“In a way,” the man said. He extended a hand, palm up. “It was a pleasure, my dear... I do believe I haven’t caught your name.”

“That’s right.” The woman placed her hand in his, shifting so she could hold her child in one arm. “I guess not. It’s Aulea.” The man bowed over her hand and kissed her knuckles. 

“Aulea,” he said. “What a charming name. And for this, just this once…” he looked up at her through half lowered lids, and the fire danced in his eyes. “I will tell you mine.”


End file.
